Shining Threads (52 page)

‘I’m sure you’re right but there is nothing to be done about it.’

‘Really! Well, if he were my husband I know what I would have to say to him.’

‘Since he is not your husband perhaps you would keep your observations to yourself,’ Tessa hissed. Then, realising that with poor Charlie in the ground no more than six weeks it was
hardly the most tactful thing to say to his widow, she began to rise, to go to Laurel who had her black-edged handkerchief to her face. But she had gone too far, it seemed, and Laurel was out of
her chair and gliding towards the door, deeply affronted and in no way to be mollified should Tessa even try.

Dear heaven, what had happened to the pleasant, hedonistic, she admitted it now, life she had led in the past with Drew? Her despair was deep as she waved away the poker-faced Briggs and Dorcas
with a request for coffee and brandy in the drawing-room, seeing the disapproving twitch of the butler’s eyebrows, since no lady drank brandy, but not caring. Her world was disintegrating
about her so why should she care that, knowing the servants’ grapevine as she did, it would be all over the Penfold Valley by this time tomorrow that, among her other shortcomings, the
high-stepping Mrs Drew Greenwood took hard liquor, and on her own?

She stared into the fire having further displeased Briggs by telling him curtly to leave the decanter, she would serve herself and would ring if she needed him. The brandy smoothed its warm
descent into her stomach, soothing a little the fluttering butterflies of what she recognised quite plainly as fear. The fumes of the drink reached her head, blurring her sharp thoughts, of Drew
and where he might be, of Annie and where she was to go, and of Will.

Will. Dear Lord, why should she give a thought to that perfidious scoundrel? It was he who had brought her down to this. If it was not for him she could even now be with Drew, wherever he was,
or at least have him here with her, where he should be, observing the proprieties of mourning for a month or two. It was only because she had been forced since Charlie’s death and her
mother’s flight to Italy to address herself to the wearying problem of the mills, that Drew had ridden off – where did he say he was going? her confused mind asked again – and
left her to the tedium of Laurel’s false and easy tears. If Will Broadbent had had an iota of compassion in him he would have accepted her offer of manager,
no
, directorship of the
Chapman mills thus leaving her to devote herself to the care and constant attention which her husband needed. Will had loved her once, she told herself as she poured herself another brandy, and
surely, for the sake of what they had once known and for the simply splendid salary she would have been prepared to pay him, he should have taken her up on her offer. Instead, he had laughed at
her, made the most insulting suggestion, humiliated her. God, she could feel the red flames of outrage scorch her body even now for that was what it was that made her so . . . so inflammable. Her
skin prickled and shivered to her own touch. She was restless and on edge and it was all his fault, the bastard, and if she could get back at him, in any way, by God she would. And all this time he
had been going to Annie’s, gossiping no doubt the pair of them about Tessa Greenwood and the hard-drinking, rashly gambling, arrogantly riding society she moved in. Well, to hell with them.
Both of them. And good riddance. She was going to bed and she didn’t care where Drew was either, or what Will Broadbent and Annie Beale had been up to behind her back. She didn’t give a
damn if he’d taken Annie Beale to his bed as once he had taken her; if he had laid those hard hands and that hard body against the frail but fighting spirit which dwelled in Annie. What was
it to her? Damn them, damn them . . . she’d show them . . .

She knew she was drunk as she stumbled up the stairs to the warm, candle-lit intimacy of the bedroom she shared with Drew, but she didn’t care. If it blurred the pictures of Will and Annie
. . .

She felt her way to the dressing-table, shaking her head, trying to clear it of the ugly thoughts which muddled it. It was nothing to do with her. Annie must be lonely . . . and Will . . . and
how convenient . . . She swung back blindly, knocking over an ornament which fell to the carpet with a gentle thud. She felt quite sick and trembling, which of course was due to the amount of
brandy she had drunk . . . She must get into bed . . . where, for God’s sake, was Emma . . . ?

She awoke in the night, alone for the first time since her marriage, and frightened. Deeply, disturbingly, terrified. Where was he? Merciful heaven, where was he? He was a grown man, strong and
vigorous, but wilful and defenceless as a child without her and what accident might have befallen him in his scorn for anything he considered smacked of caution or common sense? She was no saint
herself, as anyone in the Penfold Valley would confirm, but deep inside her was that spark of self-preservation, that instinct which told her when she had reached the limit of what might be called
foolhardy and could be considered insane, and that Drew lacked. She had restrained him to that limit but on his own, or in the company of only his breakneck friends, where might he have ended
up?

She sat up wincing as her head rattled painfully about on her shoulders, then began to thud to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Getting out of bed she moved to the window and stared blindly out into
the wavering darkness of the garden, trying to penetrate it for some sign that Drew had come home and was, perhaps, sprawled drunkenly in the drawing-room or at the foot of the stairs. She had not
heard his bay or the sound of the dangerously light curricle he drove. It was solidly dark and quiet, the only movement a faint blurring where the bare bough of the tree outside the window
shuddered in the wind. It was cold and sinister out there, beyond the walls of the park and the woods which surrounded Greenacres. The wild moorland, the rapid rushing of icy water, the stony
hillside was no place for a man, particularly if he was drunk as Drew was bound to be.

He came in with the dawn, trembling slightly from some excess he did not care to speak of, not quite sober but grinning impishly, pleading for forgiveness, slipping naked into their bed,
nuzzling into her shoulder. She held his long, lean body in her arms, her cheek resting on the damp thickness of his matted hair, soothing him to warmth and sleep. She felt the tension –
caused by what? she wondered despairingly – drain from him, and as it did so her own body relaxed, and her mind, suddenly clear, suddenly impatient with her previous turmoil, knew what she
must do, for no one else would.

25

She was standing in the middle of the cleared site at Chapmanstown, staring in hopeless bewilderment at the plans the clever young architect was explaining to her when the
carriage drew in through the gateway. She glanced at it without much interest. It was probably another of those infernal men from the bank or the insurance company come to fill her mind with
incomprehensible figures; to talk of assets and liabilities, of titles and securities and after weeks of being bombarded by such imponderables she felt she really could not take one more.

The man who descended from the carriage was overwhelmingly familiar as he stood for a moment beside it seeming to give some instruction to the coachman. When she looked again she was not at all
surprised to see Will Broadbent.

He was quite splendid in a well-cut business suit of dark cloth, his shirt front snowy and his greatcoat thrown back from his heavy shoulders in a most dashing way. His tall hat was held against
his chest and he bowed before walking towards her with a light tread which came, she assumed, from his experience of being a thief. Now why should she remember that? she wondered dazedly. Then he
was beside her, his white teeth startling against his brown skin.

He smiled and his smoky eyes, filled with some secret amusement, ran over her.

‘Mrs Greenwood,’ he said politely, ‘may I say how well you are looking?’

She stiffened and gave him a frigid stare. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked rudely and the young architect turned to look at her in surprise. ‘I’ll just go and . .
.’ he began, but she put a hand on his arm to restrain him.

‘No, don’t go, Mr Talbot. This gentleman will not be stopping.’ The memory of her humiliation at his hands made her go hot then cold with anger and she did not wish to be
reminded of it nor left alone with its instigator. What was he doing here, anyway, looking so prosperous, with his own carriage and coachman and nothing at all to do with his day, it seemed, but
ride over and inspect what she was doing in her own mill yard?

‘Are you here on business, Mr Broadbent?’ she asked haughtily, her manner implying that, if not, he could take himself off and look sharp about it.

‘Indeed I am, Mrs Greenwood, and if we can find somewhere more congenial to discuss it I would be obliged.’

Not by a flicker of his cool eyes nor a muscle of his smooth face did he convey that he even remembered their last meeting. It had been nothing to him; an event of so little importance it had
slipped completely from his mind. She was of so little importance to him in his new and distinguished career, in his busy and successful world, that had it not been for the certainty of profit to
himself he would not have been here at all.

‘I cannot think that you and I could have common business interests, Mr Broadbent, but if you would like to call on my managers at Crossbank or at one of my other mills I’m sure one
or other of them could spare you a moment or two.’

She heard Mr Talbot draw in his breath sharply. In the past four or so years Will Broadbent had carved out for himself quite a place in the business community of south Lancashire, creating and
enlarging the now-prosperous co-operative over Hepworth way. He was known to have a share in several very profitable schemes and had been successful in more than one gamble to do with the railway,
so Mr Talbot had heard. It was Mr Talbot’s firm which had drawn up the plans for the mill in which Mr Broadbent was one of the major shareholders and he was a highly respected businessman
where businessmen were known to be hardheaded, shrewd and extremely ruthless. Men called on Mr Broadbent these days, not the other way round, which was a fair indication of how well he had done for
himself. Now, it was well known that Mrs Drew Greenwood had a high opinion of herself, indeed her fine husband was what could only be called arrogant, but to speak to Mr Broadbent as though he was
no more than a weaving-shed overlooker surely smacked of foolhardiness?

Mr Broadbent evidently thought so too, and Mr Talbot watched uneasily, wishing he could slip away and let them get on with whatever it was that was between them, but Mrs Greenwood still had his
arm in a grip of steel and short of rudely tearing it from her grasp he was forced to remain where he was.

‘I don’t deal with managers, lass,’ Mr Broadbent said warningly.

‘And I don’t deal with overlookers, Mr Broadbent.’

Mr Talbot watched in growing horror as Mr Broadbent, for a moment, looked as though he would like nothing better than to strike Mrs Greenwood full in her contemptuous face. Then, miraculously,
he smiled, a smile of such good humour Mr Talbot thought that he could not have heard exactly what Mrs Greenwood had said.

‘Is that meant to insult me, Tessa?’ His smile broadened into a delighted grin. He shook his head and, without so much as an ‘if I may’ or ‘do you mind?’ he
reached out and plucked the plan for the new mill from the architect’s hands.

‘You go too far, Will Broadbent,’ Mrs Greenwood hissed and as she whipped forward to retrieve the plan Mr Talbot stepped back, thankfully, moving to stand several yards away with the
site foreman and the master builder in charge who were also present, mouths agape, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, avid spectators of the incredible scene. They were treated to the sight of the
imperious and beautiful Mrs Greenwood, wife of the owner of Chapman Manufacturing, dancing at her full height as she stretched up to reach the set of plans which Mr Broadbent held above his
head.

‘You are being exceedingly foolish, Tessa,’ he laughed, ‘and undignified too. These men are wondering what on earth can be going on between Mr Broadbent and the exquisite Mrs
Greenwood that she has to create such a scene over a piece of paper. Calm down, for God’s sake. I only want to study the damn thing.’

‘Who gave you the right to walk into my yard and help yourself to the plans for my new mill, Will Broadbent?’ she snarled, her eyes narrowed in her angry face. She wanted to stamp
her foot and strike out at him, to fly at him with hard, furious fists for he was doing it again, he was humiliating her, but this time in a yard full of curious men.

‘Stop it, Tessa, and stop acting like a child in a tantrum.’

‘Tantrum, is it? I’ll show you who . . .’

‘All you are doing is showing these men a side of your nature, which, if you are to go into business, would be best kept hidden and which, if you don’t control yourself, will be all
over the valley by nightfall. Direct me to your office . . .’

‘I haven’t got an office,’ she snapped perilously.

‘Then the foreman’s hut will do.’

‘You must be out of your mind if you imagine I am about to discuss my affairs with you, and in a workman’s hut.’

‘Don’t do this to yourself, Tessa. Smile and allow me to hold your arm.’ He looked about him, one dark eyebrow raised, his eyes beaming with good humour. ‘Now, where is
the . . . aah, there it is.’ He nodded politely to the startled builder. ‘May we borrow your office for a moment, Mr . . . er . . .’

‘Of course, sir.’ The man touched the brim of his tall hat, wondering as he did so why he had called Will Broadbent ‘sir’, for he himself, as a
master
builder held
a position of some importance in the business community of Crossfold.

He closed the door of the small wooden hut behind him and leaned against it. His eyes, almost the colour of treacle in the dim light, were bold now, impudent and full of stifled laughter. She
flounced out of his grasp, putting up a hand to her bonnet and adjusting a stray wisp of shining hair.